Catch 22
by The General G of K
Summary: ONESHOT MIDHAUNTED She probably just needed someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on, you convinced yourself. And that seemed sufficient.


It all started that afternoon. You were feeling pretty confident as you sauntered down those halls like you owned the damn place. Not only were you decked out in your favorite leather jacket, the one that was used beyond recognition, and sort of, admittedly, made you feel like Indiana Jones, but you had finally gotten Kelly Prescott off your back without drawing much attention. You were unstoppable. Plus, the roses you had sent had pretty much worked their magic, if the lack of response was any indication.

But then _she_ walked out of the principal's office, and something about her demeanor was way off, enough so that you felt the need to make your way towards her, thinking that a healthy dose of Paul Slater was exactly what she needed in her current state. You were way off, by the way.

Upon further inspection, you realized her cheeks were both blotchy and wet, so you asked her why she was crying. As was her usual reply, she brushed it off saying it was allergies, and then proceeded to wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her suede jacket. Having never been able to stomach the sight of a good material, like suede, being destroyed, you pulled her arm away and offered her the handkerchief you always had stored in the back pocket of your pants. She was grateful, if only a tad weirded out by the gesture, and you couldn't help but notice that even when her nose was stuffed, and her eyes puffy, she was still more stunning than the entire female population at the Mission. It was one of the things you found appealing about her; she never looked vulnerable.

The rest of the time was filled with attempts to patch up the incident from a couple days ago. Not before trapping her between one of the supports and your arms, you apologized—even though, technically, you didn't really mean it—asked if she got the flowers you sent, and explained a couple theories you possessed concerning the nature of hers and your beings. Suze refused to answer, hassling you about your chivalrous gesture, until eventually, she shoved you away. That angered the hell out of you, so before you could stop yourself, you muttered a sly crack about Rico Suave breaking up with her.

The sound that was ripped from her throat threw you off your guard, and you would have been way more pleased at the turn of events if the sight of her sudden tears didn't have your insides turning into oatmeal. You longed to comfort her, and maybe you would have, but the fact that you were sort of her least favorite person at the moment kept you from doing so. Instead, you settled for apologizing profusely, trying to empathize with her in the smallest bit. She was only minimally responsive, but that didn't stop you from finally growing a pair and exhibiting the first rather impressive combination of _cojones_ and gravitas in a while.

"Come with me to the beach tonight. I have my uncle's old truck. We can lie on the truck bed and stargaze. If we happen to get into my secret stash of alcohol, so be it."

You heard the words come out of your mouth, but you couldn't comprehend _why_ they were doing so. Only a severely handicapped person would be led to believe that you were the sole person on the planet Suze Simon wanted to spend a drunken evening with, after hearing the love of her life had just broken up with her. At least, that's what you were thinking right up until the moment when a small, tentative, "okay," had exited her mouth, changing your whole theory about Suze Simon.

Time passed by in a drunken haze (no pun intended) as you explained to her when you would pick her up, and what the overall dress theme was (it was casual, by the way). As she walked away to her next period class, you still couldn't wrap your brain around what had finally convinced her to agree to overtime with you, despite The Kiss. Days of prodding, manipulating, coaxing, and she chose to agree the moment _after_ her boyfriend dumps her? _She probably just needed someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on_, you convinced yourself. And that seemed sufficient.

Still, you fussed over which aftershave to use with which cologne, as well as which gel. And you spent at least a half hour sifting through your closet, trying to find a combination that didn't seem too desperate or too formal. Eventually you settled for a hunter green, v-neck sweater with a pair of khaki trousers, with_out_ pleats, of course. But for reasons beyond your comprehension, the whole thing just felt wrong, so another fifteen minutes passed before you finally just settled on that too trendy Rolling Stones shirt your mother bought you for Christmas last year—the one she was absolutely convinced played up your eyes—under your leather coat and a pair of worn Calvin Klein jeans because the ensemble made you feel like an Average Joe, and you felt a lot less pressured. Or that's how you tried to explain it to your frazzled brain, anyway.

Neither one of you had the courage to say something to the other on the drive there, probably because, to be honest, your hearts and minds just weren't that into it. Her head was most likely focused on her recently lost beau, while you were chastising yourself for even getting into this situation in the first place. And even though you pleaded with yourself _not_ to, you finally broke the silence barrier by apologizing about the whole de Silva situation, explaining, "I didn't know."

She quietly accepted your apology, and even though everything about her presence shouted that she was fine, you could tell that deep down she was breaking. You wanted to be there for her, but weren't exactly sure how to accomplish that without some sort of blemish, so you continued to drive silently until you had finally reached the beach.

As you parked the car, you realized that the beach was vacant, which was good because for some reason, this "thing", whatever it was, felt like it should have been kept between her and you only. It was a secret, and you were okay with that. Plus, by the looks of her, she was too.

You sheepishly explained that you didn't have time to set the truck bed up beforehand, to which Suze responded that she didn't mind waiting. So, without another word, you set to spreading the flannel blanket out, covering most of the ancient truck bed. As you were arranging miscellaneous aspects of the space, you got the uncanny feeling that she was scrutinizing every inch of you, and the feel of her eyes boring into the flesh of your back had you feeling like you were on fire. But when you turned to look, her eyes were nowhere near you.

You couldn't tell if you were relieved or disappointed.

Without hesitation, Suze joined you on the truck bed, and for once in your life, you felt as if the planets had aligned; this felt _right_. _I could get used to this_, you declared to yourself, even though you knew, as soon as the words had been thought, that you couldn't. This wasn't enough. You wanted more. But for the meantime, you were satisfied because any moment spent with this girl was gold. With her, you didn't feel like such an outcast, or such a disgrace, because with her, you were free of being judged. With her, you mattered. It was a false sense of security, but you were willing to ignore that factoid, since you'd been doing so from the moment you found out about Jesse.

You wouldn't have traded those first few minutes, suffered in the most awkward of silences, you decided, for anything in the world. Sure, most of the conversation had consisted of trivial happenings at school, but just knowing that Suze was there, with you, out of her own will, sort of had you on a high that seemed to have no end in sight.

Eventually, that passed, and after a few beer cans later, plus, an emptied bottle of Captain Morgan's, you began getting that hysterical/clumsy feeling that usually accompanied overall intoxication. You could tell Suze was succumbing to the effects of alcohol as well because she was actually laughing at your jokes. The time flew by in a swirl of slurred games of "Desert Island" as well as "Who Would You Do?" and you thought your head would explode from laughter, when, in response to 'Aladdin or Santa Claus', she replied, "Santa Claus," because, "he's probably a better cuddler."

"This is nice," you heard her mutter from her spot next to you, and had you not been drunk off your ass, the sentiment would have made you smile. As it were, you nodded emphatically from your side, making every attempt to seem sober, but failing miserably.

And it wasn't much help that you couldn't tear your gaze away from the stars hanging up above you like sparkling shards remaining from a serious chandelier explosion or something. No, that wasn't it. They were more like holes in the sky that allowed the sunlight to burst through. Imperfections posing as functioning pulchritude. And it was then that you realized that was exactly what you were; only, you were too drunk to meld the realizations together, so you sat there, wide-eyed, with a stupid grin on your face, contemplating whether you should blurt this . . . 'finding' out loud, or keep it to yourself. You decided on the latter, and shifted uncomfortably as the ridges of the truck bed dug into your back.

"I like being here with you," you said suddenly, adding the 'with you' part in case she got the impression that you have a weird obsession with truck beds or flannel blankets at night. You glanced over at her and saw that her eyes were closed, and not for the first time, you wondered what was going on in her head. From the looks of her still position, it appeared that she was sleeping. "I know I only met you this summer, and then I met you again just a few days—well, saw you again, since you can't meet someone twice because that's physically impossible, but I feel like . . . I feel like we get each other. I feel like if we gave it some more time, we c-c-could be friends, you know? And that's weird for me because I don't have any friends. Even my parents could never be considered my friends. They don't love me. I mean, I'm sure they tried to at some point or another, but I guess they just quit or something. So, yeah, you'd be my friend—well, _we_ would be friends, at least, I feel like we could be. Friends, I mean. You're this, um, what's the word? . . . Amazing, that's it. You're this amazing person to, uh, be with, and – and I feel worth something, I guess is what I'm trying to say."

After a few moments of silence, you figured Suze had fallen asleep during your long speech, and now, come to think of it, even you couldn't remember what the point had been exactly. You were prepared to collapse back against the truck bed, for you had propped yourself up on your elbows, only, she had opened her eyes, and was staring straight above. You smiled crookedly as you got a glimpse of her profile. One of the features you loved most about her was the shape of her nose, and no matter how much she denied it, there was always that "Jew-y" quality to the craftsmanship of the piece. You liked her eyes, too.

"I'm not who you think I am," she said quietly from her side of the truck, and even though you wanted to question her further, you were distracted by the song that had suddenly come on over the radio. It was "More Than a Feeling" by Boston, and even though you despised most 80's power ballads, you couldn't help notice, even in your state of mind, the sheer irony of the whole thing because that's exactly how you felt regarding Suze. You wanted to be friends with her, but you wanted more. But you didn't love her, or maybe you did; you didn't know because it was "more than a feeling".

You ignored your revelation and turned on your side to look directly at Suze because your back just couldn't take the constant prodding of the truck bed any longer. "You can't be that bad," you assured. "Look at me. I left my brother for dead up in Mordor with Sauron, or wherever. You can't get much worse."

She shook her head, and you stared, fascinated at her hair which was splayed out around her head. It was like a bucket full of chocolate licorice, only, silkier and less sweet. "No, I'm a murderer," she claimed.

You nodded, not realizing the complete implication her statement had, although, you were pretty sure that, along with a soul crushing headache, it would hit you tomorrow when you woke up. If you remembered any of it, that was. "Who did you murder?"

"When I first came to Carmel, I stabbed Mr. Beaumont in the chest with a pencil because I thought he was a vampire."

Her face remained stoic, until a long, unattractive snort came from the back of her throat, and her facial features scrunched ridiculously as she burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. And then suddenly, you found yourself gasping for breath as you joined her in a shameless fit of hysteria. No matter how much you tried, you couldn't stop laughing, and even when tears began to roll down your cheeks, all you could think about was the ludicrous statement that had exited that mouth just moments before. Everyone knew vampires were only female.

Eventually, the bubble of hysteria died down, leaving you feel hopelessly empty, and so you stared at her at the opposite end of the truck, only, she wasn't that far away any longer thanks to the rolling around earlier. You could feel your head pound, and your chest ached, but for some reason, it had nothing to do with your physical status. The longer you stared, the more depressed she looked, staring gloomily out into the distance.

And it was then that you did something you had never really intended to do until that very moment. You kissed her. Your lips barely grazed hers, but the bolt of electricity that passed from your finger tips, to your head, until finally ending at your feet, had you shaking as if it had suddenly dropped in temperature. Only it hadn't. And maybe you weren't as satisfied with the arrangement as you had led yourself to believe. Her lips tasted like a mixture of Captain Morgan's, some sort of lip gloss, and something you couldn't even name. Nothing had prepared you for that sort of reaction.

"I'm sorry," you apologized immediately afterward, ripping yourself back from her space. You didn't really mean it (although somehow, you sort of did), and you were beginning to realize that any apology that ever came out of your mouth was fake as well.

Surprisingly, she didn't flip out or anything. She remained silent, and unlike before, you found you couldn't handle the following silence. It seemed to snake its hands around your neck and squeeze as hard as it possibly could, but then your head just began to hurt because personifying silence was blowing your mind, and you thought it best to just stick with simple clauses and verbs.

So the two of you just sat there in complete silence, not looking at each other, and you couldn't help but think that she was saying more in her silence than she ever could in words, and that just sort of blew. The silence was killing you, but you refused to say what you wanted to because the filter that your thoughts usually went through was down, and you didn't want to make an ass of yourself any more than you already had.

Catch-22. That was exactly what this was, you decided. _A f—king Catch-22_. You wanted more than anything in the world for Suze to be happy, but her version of happy was being with Rico Suave. And for you to be happy, to have what you truly wanted, you would be making her _un_happy. The friend route had been beaten to death, and even though you really gave it your all, it wasn't enough. _Is she really what I want?_ you asked yourself, and the answer came from so deep down, it even surprised you.

_Yes_.

"Suze, d'you ever think you could love me?" you blurted out suddenly. The silence had become too much, and you found yourself desperate for an answer. It wasn't a tough question after all. You wanted to continue, but her finger was on your lips, silencing you from any other remarks that might slip through.

She cupped your face in her hands, and it took everything in you to not be overwhelmed by her closeness, let alone the intimate gesture. You looked in her eyes and realized they were filled with sadness that seemed to go beyond the barriers of reality. But everything was forgotten when her lips touched yours, and for the first time in your sorry excuse for an existence, you felt like you had finally won. You felt like you were free.

The two of you fell back against the flannel blanket as she deepened the kiss, and you couldn't help but respond with the exact same vigor because this was what you had wanted for so long, and once you got what you wanted, you had a tendency to really go for it. Everything beneath your clumsy palms felt as if it was meant to be there. You tried to explain it further, but your head ended up hurting again as it spun in a drunken haze, so you just went with the flow.

Suze pulled away, and her words came at you like a brick wall. "He was there first. He will always be first."

You were too drunk to understand the exact implications of her words at the time—admittedly, her lifting her shirt up and over her head was incredibly distracting, especially since she seemed to have forgotten her bra at home—so you went back to kissing her, but come early next morning, when you woke up on the truck bed naked and alone, you realized that she had made the choice of Catch-22 for you.

And that your head was killing you.


End file.
